


emiss(ari)us

by graiai



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Necrophilia - Dead Man Tops, Size Difference, Somnophilia, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: G’raha Tia ever dreaded sleep.
Relationships: Elidibus/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, Zenos yae Galvus/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	emiss(ari)us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mechabre (tender_anaphylaxis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tender_anaphylaxis/gifts).



> ETA: this fic has now been illustrated by yogoshite [here](https://twitter.com/yogoshite/status/1255310665859956742)! NSFW, warning for blood.

G’raha Tia ever dreaded sleep, simply because what time spent sleeping could not then be spent in study or conversation; of late the Exarch dreads it for waking to the afterimage of Allag, and his clothes soiled like he was once again seventeen and laboring to hide all evidence from the dormitory’s other occupants. But even within the confines of his study he _does_ eventually tire, and when his head began ever so slowly to hang in his exhaustion all took notice. Y’shtola, for one, would not let him to peace in the lifestream should he expire from exhaustion before succeeding in his task that had taken her and her companions from their world; he expects Lyna would help her.

He agrees, then, to rest his eyes, and retires to the room of unknown purpose—as so many are still—he had claimed as a bedchamber those many years ago.

The dreams have not plagued him now in months, he reasons. It is unlikely on any given day they will. But on those occasions they do, they are at best unsettling: waking up hard, but with an odd recollection of watching _himself_ as he once looked, being—handled by a man much, much larger than himself in that place he had laid G’raha Tia to rest.

Even to think of it stirs him—of course, for rest is hardly the only need he has neglected in the past years.

He could attempt to banish the memories, but he has before, on occasion, and either found himself left unsatisfied or very nearly so. No, far better to face them: they are only dreams, and nothing within may hurt him unless he allows it. At their worst, they would find him several days on end, and neither his mind nor his work were unaffected. He has taken time enough—he cannot afford such to happen again.

When he resolves to take himself in hand, it is with a vial of oil reserved for the purpose retrieved from a drawer amid papers and other long-forgotten things. It glistens on crystal that already gleams, clinging only to those facets it likes no matter how he turns his palm. Despite the crystal’s petulance, sometimes it is these fingers he fucks himself on, but today he does not particularly relish the thought of its rough drag inside of him, so he warms the oil between his hands as best he can. The heat comes from friction more than his own body (its own warmth leeched away ever more day by day by the crystal overtaking him), and recalls the most recent image which saw him wake with a tightness in his chest he found unsettling, for the scene flickering still behind his eyelids felt so terribly _real_ he half-expects to press his fingers into a hole already oiled and fucked loose.

But the muscle at his entrance is as tight as it ever has been, still untouched by aught but his own hand. The three fingers he presses inside with no more preparation than the oil dripping down the back of his hand bring a mild sting for the suddenness, but moreso it feels _wrong_ , too much and too little at once. He’d learned quickly that he prefers the feeling of something inside of him when he pleasures himself, but for the whole of his natural life he had never felt dissatisfied for the breadth of one or two of his own slender fingers—and now, though he’s still never been taken by another, he feels empty with as little as that inside of him.

His hands are so small, after all. It must take three to roughly equal only one of the man who takes him in his dreams, and never has _he_ stopped at one. The Exarch—or Raha, rather, for it is that young fool whom the Exarch sees in these dreams, free of the creeping, mold-like roots of the Crystal Tower which cling to the Exarch’s bones—did not know his own body could take anything even half as large as the man’s girth, but time and again he has woken hard or already spent from a dream in which he could see in the plane of his abdomen the thrusting of that cock inside of him. He could not hope to see such looking down at himself now, beginning to rock his hand. His cock lies half-hard and yet untouched; he regrets, not for the first time, that being filled is not enough to bring him to climax. Being _fucked_ might—does, frequently, in his fantasies and dreams alike—but in the absence of a partner, he must needs take his cock in crystalline hand eventually should he want to finish.

What part of him conjured up this new fantasy, the Exarch does not know. It is always the same man to take him, but he is a stranger—neither anyone G’raha Tia had met in life nor any he can recall seeing some statue or painting of reprinted in a textbook. He hasn’t even the look of an Allagan, though that is what he _must_ be, for there can be no other explanation for the man’s great, hulking size and his proportions, nor for his odd quality of familiarity without true remembrance. But he cannot even recall when the man began to _appear_ in his dreams: feeling at once as though he remembered the lack of them and as though they had been part of him as long as he had _been_ himself, or perhaps longer still. They have the weight of memory on his heart, though they are not and cannot be.

Nor, to his disquiet, are they nightmares.

To cast them in the waking light his stomach turns, for every detail suggests they ought to be. He has woken with a throat feeling as though it should be raw from screaming and the vivid sense memory of having reached out towards his ~~lover~~ ~~rapist~~ lover to find not warm, living flesh but a sponge-like film which tears beneath even the lightest touch of his fingertips. He has watched absent of horror G’raha Tia’s sleeping body slumped in his lap, strong hands encircling his hips to hold him steady as he’s fucked into, head lolling against the far larger man’s chest and his own cock soft and untouched. It is only once he has woken that horror and disgust set in: that for whatever purpose the Exarch’s mind has conjured him he is neither violent nor affectionate in his use, taking his pleasure of a soulless body without even the illusion it is anything else.

Even so, arousal is never absent. In most he is simply used, and that is not so different from fantasizing about his own degradation in some ill-defined Allagan harem, careful to avoid any touch which the Emperor would not grant him for fear of spoiling his own image. This particular fantasy was the most common of his school years, and while it has since gained company in the form of hazy images of being had by the Warrior of Light, neither age nor the demystification of the Crystal Tower has lessened its allure.

In other cases, his libido manages to find interest in what in all other circumstances he would find at best boring; at worst, revolting.

The image which sticks in the Exarch’s memory most vividly now is not what he awoke to most recently— _that_ was a fuck in every way unnotable except for that he did not wake in time with the man’s release but rather had the odd feeling of watching for nearly an hour his past self sleep ruined and bare, spend leaking onto the floor from between his spread thighs. No, what he thinks of now with four fingers curled inside of him is an image he has tried and failed again and again to push away for the turn of his stomach it inspires even now months after the nap from which it originated.

As if he had just awoken from it, the Exarch can feel the man’s fingers curl around his wrist, overlapping for the difference in their sizes; can feel his fingers made to press into the hideous, gaping wound of the man’s throat. It is long cold, like the rest of him, and the blood caught in the ragged edges of the wound flakes off on Raha’s fingers as they’re made to curl inside, some hideous mockery of sex which, as surely as he knows the legacy of Allag, the Exarch knows the man finds his own pleasure in.

Fucking the inside of the man’s dead throat on his fingers feels too much like fucking himself, the gape of an orifice not so different when his own body is now nearly as cool as that of the corpse; the Exarch should be disgusted, and on some level he _is_. But overshadowing his revulsion is the way it felt before he woke, the odd romance of the man coming inside of him while his own fingers were buried to the third knuckle inside of his lover, the way Raha felt his pleasure nearly as his own.

He finally takes his cock in hand, the facet-edges of his crystalline palm not sharp but a welcome shock when they drag against his most sensitive flesh. The sensation brings him back into his body, alive—as much as the Exarch can call himself alive now—what flesh remains at least warm to the touch, and warmer the farther he can reach inside.

When, in his worst dream, the lover his mind has made of an Allagan corpse found climax, Raha felt his pleasure as his own, thrumming through something deeper than only the pulse of the cock inside of him. Fucking himself on half his fist now, his own cock in hand, the pleasure the Exarch feels is only his own, and that ought to be enough to still the unease in the pit of his stomach.

It _ought_ to be. What pleasure he finds in his own hand and in his own fantasies is not a struggle of wills, nor _can_ it be—but somehow, when he comes, the Exarch feels as though he has lost.

**Author's Note:**

> DID YOU KNOW that the crystal-oil interaction depicted in this fic is real? It’s true! Mix 1:1 epsom salt and hot (but not boiling) water, stir for one minute, and refrigerate for at least three hours. Pour off any water that hasn’t crystallized, pour in a few drops of oil, and watch how it clings to some facets and never to others.


End file.
